Page 3 of A Kiss of Deception

Garrick’s body stiffens. The contortions cease, and he crumples to the ground.

Everyone backs away from Garrick’s lifeless body. The hooded figure stands over him, the magic still swirling around their fingers, their identity still hidden beneath their hood.

With a voice filled with emotion, the barkeeper breaks the silence. “By the Thirteen,” he mutters, crossing himself in a gesture of protection. “What have we witnessed here tonight?”

Jarvil meets his gaze, a sardonic grin playing on his lips. “Progress,” he says. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

He turns to the hooded figure. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Then turning his attention to the barkeep. “Now, about that buyer...” He says, his voice steady. “I believe we have some business to attend to.”

2

MILKOR

As I move through the streets marketplace, the scent of roasting meat mingles with the clamor of vendors. Despite my hooded cloak, I feel a thousand eyes watching.

A dark Elven woman whispers to her companion, “Have you seen anyone move like that?”

I press on, my footsteps silent on the cobblestones. Strands of my long white hair frame my face, and a merchant scarcely meets my gaze as he mutters about strange elven men on the street.

The draw of that powerful ring guides me toward a tavern. I’ve followed it here from that elven manor that was overthrown by an orc. An orc wearing that ring. If anything can break my curse, the ring will.

That damned purna… I never saw them coming. Trapping me in this weak, pathetic flesh for only exercising my nature, my right? A great demon like me should not be reduced to such a… such a disgustingly useless nature. My strength, my power, everything was wrapped in the blink of an eye.

The Red Stallion is the last place I want to be. Rowdy patrons fill the smoky space, and the thought of orcs makes my skincrawl. But as a demon in dark elf guise, I have little choice; at least the orcs tolerate elves more than demons.

The sound of laughter from a tavern pulls me from my thoughts. I enter, and all eyes turn to me, filled with uncertainty.

I sink onto a barstool, hood up, eyes downcast. Laughter erupts as orcs bellow like thunder, their gazes weighing on me. If they knew who I really am, they’d kill me on sight. Well, they’d try.

Taking a sip of ale, I try to ignore how their coarse laughter grates on my nerves. Irony twists in my stomach—once a fearsome demon, now a mere mortal hiding among creatures I once deemed beneath me.

A heavy hand slams onto my shoulder, and I turn to face a hulking orc, a smirk twisting his features. “You don’t look like you belong here, pretty boy. What are you doing in a place like this?”

“Just passing through,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Didn’t realize this was an orc tavern.”

His grin widens, revealing yellowed teeth. He leans in closer, breath hot and sour. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. One wrong move, and you might end up on the wrong end of an orc’s axe.”

My muscles tense, fury battling with restraint. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I let a hint of ice seep into my tone.

The orc laughs, slapping my back before swaggering away. As their laughter echoes, I gulp my ale, trying to quiet my unease. I can’t afford any missteps here.

Near the bar, I spot a man holding a vase. A flash of gold on his companion’s finger catches my eye—it’s the ring. My ring, or it will be very soon. On the hand of the thief who snatched it from the manor before I could get my own hands on it. I can sense its power, thrumming with promise. The key to my freedom.

I slide off my stool and approach. “I’ll give you fifty gold for it,” I say.

“Seventy and it’s yours,” the rough-voiced man replies.

As I lean closer, the man with the vase stumbles back, his eyes wide. He transforms before me into a grotesque mockery of a Blood Lord, sending a chill down my spine.

With the ring’s power surging, I act quickly. This is my chance to gain the thief’s favor--to get closer to the power he so clearly doesn’t understand. I strike him down, the surrounding orcs recoiling in shock.

“I’m Milkor, a dark elf,” I declare, voice cold. “I’ll protect you from the curses on those stolen goods—no charge.”

Jarvil, a thief, nods in gratitude. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“Follow me,” I gesture toward the door, feeling the ring pulse with latent power.

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